


May or May Not (You’re Still Fucked)

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, brief masturbation, lots of awkward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2012-11-21
Packaged: 2017-11-19 05:44:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott watches him with wide, adorable, calculating eyes. “Is this like the time in eighth grade where you couldn’t look at me for a week?”</p>
<p>Stiles whimpers and buries his burning face in his knees and hides under his arms.</p>
<p>“Oh, Stiles.” Scott says like a pitying and endearing mother hen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	May or May Not (You’re Still Fucked)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired mildly by the line _‘Would it be okay to jerk off to Derek? Once he tried thinking about Danny while he did it, just because hey, Danny’s hot, and then Stiles saw him at school the next day and it was awful. Like, he couldn’t even look him in the face.’_ From [I’m Okay, You’re Okay](http://archiveofourown.org/works/569414).

Stiles comes with an absolutely obscene  _“ungh”_  on his lips; the sort of high pitched, twink noise that you only find in porn. His his are still rolling up into his hand as he comes down from the high, white spots under his eyelids flickering in and out before his vision clears. He pants, chilled and shivering, and wipes his hand on the covers. Stiles melts into the bed with a dopey grin, feeling satisfied and sleepy and perfect.

He’s on the cusp of sleep when it hits him. He shoots up in bed so fast he actually flies  _off_  the bed and topples onto the floor. His dad doesn’t even wake, and if anything snores louder.

Stiles looks around, face flushed and hand still a bit tacky with his come. He hurries to the bathroom and scrubs his left hand red before looking in the mirror. His face is splotchy with an ugly blush, his eyes are wide but his pupils are tiny. He closes his mouth with a snap of his jaw and sighs through his nose.

“Okay.” He says quietly to his reflection. “You may or may not have just gotten off to Derek Hale.” He inhales, exhales, shudders. “You may or may not have enjoyed it  _a lot_.” His blush brightens. “You may or may not be fucking screwed.”

His cock twitches in his boxers.

“You are definitely fucking screwed.”

)

Stiles is jumpy the next day at school. It’s obvious, because everything about Stiles is obvious. His emotions splay across his face like a book unable to close, the spine bent at an unfixable angle. Even with the trauma of the supernatural and being tortured and watching his friends be tortured, Stiles still can’t keep emotions locked up, and certainly not around the people who know him best.

“Dude, you look awful. You okay?”

Stiles nods jerkily and his voice comes out squeaking. “Yep, totally fine.”

Jackson eyes him wearily, and Danny looks consumed with pity (and rage, because Jackson makes him sit with the rest of the pack and Danny’s current boyfriend doesn’t like anyone in the pack, so Danny is kind of pouting.) (Which is as irritating as it is adorable.)

“To-o-o-otally fine.” Stiles assures, shoving an apple into his mouth and wincing as his jaw stretches too far.

)

Stiles sees Derek waiting for his betas and locks himself in the second story boy’s bathroom.

“Dude, I think we should talk.” Oh, Scott. Lovely Scott. Sweet Scott. Nosey best friend Scott. “I can tell something is up.”

Stiles squeaks.

“Come on.”

)

Stiles is awkwardly silent the whole drive to Scott’s, and continues to be silent even as they get inside and settle in the living room with two bags of chips and copious amounts of soda.

“Okay. Spill.”

Stiles shoves his mouth full of chips and mumbles through commentary on _Legend of Korra_  until Scott takes the food away and turns off the television.

“Dude.”

Stiles hides his face in his hands and curls his knees to his chest. “I think I have a thing for Derek.” He moans.

Scott laughs. “Dude, that’s cool.”

“You hate him.”

Scott shrugs. “Whatever.”

Stiles eyes him suspiciously, and Scott sighs.

“We already had the ‘you’re gay and that’s okay’ talk, Stiles.” Scott tells him, very seriously. “And yeah, Derek and I aren’t gonna be best buds any time soon. But I’m not gonna, like. Hate you. For liking him.”

Stiles nods. “Thanks dude.”

“Course. That doesn’t explain why you’re acting so weird though.”

Stiles mutters a soft ‘damn’ because he thought that was a perfectly acceptable diversion. “Uh.”

Scott watches him with wide, adorable, calculating eyes. “Is this like the time in eighth grade where you couldn’t look at me for a week?”

Stiles whimpers and buries his burning face in his knees and hides under his arms.

“Oh, Stiles.” Scott says like a pitying and endearing mother hen.

)

Stiles is obvious. Everything shows on Stiles’ face. Once, in eighth grade, when Stiles hit the peek of his very silent sexual exploration—which included a lot of porn and late night HBO movies—Stiles may or may not have jerked off to Scott. Scott, who at the time was nothing more than a cute guy in a few of Stiles’ classes that listened to Stiles’ rant about history and comics. Stiles avoided Scott as best he could for the following week, unable to look Scott in the eyes without either popping an inappropriate boner, or dying of embarrassment.

A similar scenario had happened when Stiles once thought about Danny. It was of course the week they also got paired together in chemistry. It was also the week that Danny felt Stiles and he were close enough friends and Danny regaled him with tales about the latest conquest over the weekend.

Stiles may or may not have passed out in class, only to be woken with a detention slip from Mr. Harris.

)

“Stiles.”

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Stiles drops the books and pens and papers he’d been carrying, and they scatter across his freshly tidied bedroom floor. “Do you have to fucking do that?”

“Where’ve you been?” Derek asks, all business.

“Here. School. Lacrosse. The mini mart. The usual.”

Derek huffs, and stalks closer. “Why haven’t you been coming to training? Or to meetings?”

Stiles drops to the ground and starts to gather his things. “No reason. Didn’t feel like it, didn’t think I needed to.”

Derek snarls and yanks Stiles up by the collar, letting everything scatter again. “You are pack, you need to train and be informed. You  _have_  to come.”

Stiles chokes on air. “Wha.”

Derek eyes him. “You have to come.”

Stiles sends up a silent prayer, tears wet on his eyes. Hopeless, apologetic tears. “How is this my life.” He mumbles, which only gets Derek to lean closer. “Dude, p-personal boundaries.”

Derek glares at him. “Be at the next meeting.”

“Or what?”

“Or else.” Derek bites at Stiles purely for show before leaping out the window again.

Stiles falls onto the bed with his hand halfway down his pants.

)

Stiles, two days later, despite every fiber and nerve of his being telling him to ABORT ABORT MISSION TOO DANGEROUS DO NOT PROCEED DO NOT PASS GO DO NOT—

You get the idea.

Despite the aforementioned apprehension, Stiles attends the next meeting and hides in the corner of the couch and barely says a word. Derek, predictably, tells him to stay after.

“Is something wrong?” Derek asks, oddly tender.

Stiles laughs, a bit hysterical. “Yeah, no, I mean. No, nothing’s wrong.”

Derek looks like it pains him, physically, to speak. Which is stupid because he spent the entire meeting without shutting up. “Did I do something wrong? Do.” His stare hardens but not in a menacing way. “Do you not want to be—here?”

Stiles practically jumps. “What, no! I—dude, no, no. You got it all wrong. I don’t wanna not be pack. I love being pack.”

Derek looks mildly appeased. “Then what’s wrong?”

Stiles clams up again. “Ah. Just. If I told you it was something you’d only understand if you lived inside my head, you’d—?”

“Say that was bullshit.” Derek finishes, nodding.

Stiles deflates. “Figures.” He inches towards the door, and Derek only raises an eyebrow—as if to ask,  _really, really?_  “Okay,” Stiles holds out his hands in a placating gesture, “just, don’t kill me.”

“I’m not going to kill you.” Derek says.

“I just. I think you know about as well as anyone that I’m an open book.”

Derek nods.

“And, like. It’s hard for me. To keep stuff.. Private.”

“Stiles.” A warning growl.

“I may or may not have feelings for you and can’t look at you without getting the most inappropriate erection and/or swooning over your brooding manliness.”

Stiles actually winces. He knows he’s kind of a chatterbox with a propensity for word-vomit but that. That was pushing it.

Derek, though, doesn’t look murderous or confused or like a dog who doesn’t understand. He looks amused. He steps closer and closer to Stiles until they’re chest to chest.

“Ah, uh, Derek?”

“You know, the other day.” Derek starts, shutting down whatever Stiles had been about to say. “When I asked why you hadn’t been at the meetings, I turned back to come back inside. To have this conversation. To ask what was wrong.” Derek smirks. “You’re so vocal.”

Stiles eeps. “Jesus Christ.” His heart feels ready to st-st-stammer out of his chest. “Really?” He squeaks.

Derek laughs, hot and sweet against his face and Stiles laughs breathlessly back. “Really.” His hands, large like Stiles’ but fingers not as long, cup Stiles’ face and he draws a thumb along his bottom lip. “Really.” He says again and pulls Stiles in for a kiss.

)

A week later, Stiles can’t look  _anyone_  in the eye. Especially not his father. Especially not Mr. Harris, when he asks if Stiles needs to visit the nurse because  _that’s not a usual way to walk_. Especially not Scott, who just fist bumps him awkwardly and says very seriously he doesn’t want to know. Hell, he can’t even look at Derek when Derek knocks at the front door with take out and movies and pulls him close for a kiss and a laugh.  _“You’re such a dork,”_ Derek tells him affectionately, and Stiles beams with averted eyes and a blush.


End file.
